Chapter 357
Uga didn’t leave the forest.
At first, he was just a lost boy—wandering, afraid, driven by hunger and instinct. But somehow, he survived. He learned which fruits made his stomach hurt, which rivers were safe to drink from, which caves were too quiet to be empty. He was scratched, bitten, starved… but he survived.
Eventually, he found his way back to the tree where his sister had left him.
And he waited.
For five months, he slept beneath that tree every single night, curled up in the hollow, still listening for her footsteps. Still hoping.
After a while, it became every other day.
Then once a week.
Once a month.
By the fourth year, he stopped going entirely.
Not because he didn’t care.
But because… he forgot.
Forgot why the tree mattered. Forgot why that ache in his chest twisted each time he passed it. He was still a child, and memories—especially painful ones—blur in solitude.
He lived deeper in the forest then. Lived by instinct. Lived by strength.
The animals became his teachers. The monsters became his nightmares. And nature became his world.
He stopped speaking.
There was no one to speak to.
The sounds he made became grunts, hums, growls. His language faded, replaced by rhythm and reaction. Hunger and alertness.
Years passed like seasons.
Until one day… something changed.
It was midday. The sky above was blue, birds flying overhead, their songs mingling with rustling leaves. Uga was crouched on a high branch, observing a creature below—a four-legged beast with antlers—when he heard it.
Screams.
He blinked.
He tilted his head, then leapt from the branch with a quiet thud. The forest responded to him. Birds scattered. Squirrels darted. The wind shifted slightly.
He followed the sound.
Soon, he saw them.
A team of adventurers, running.
Chased.
By something large.
Uga didn’t move.
He didn’t rush to help.
He just watched.
These two-legged figures looked like him. That alone made him curious. They shouted to each other, pointed, screamed names. Language poured from their mouths—unfamiliar, but… familiar.
His heart stirred.
So he moved.
In one leap, he landed between the beast and the fleeing adventurers. The ground cracked beneath his weight.
The monster barely had time to snarl.
Uga’s fist crashed into its skull.
One hit.
It didn’t get back up.
The adventurers froze.
Blood dripped from Uga’s knuckles.
He looked at them. They looked at him.
Then… she stepped forward.
Elegant. Graceful. Her presence commanding—but not threatening. Her hair was tied back, and her eyes were kind. She spoke softly in the same unfamiliar tongue.
She looked at him with an uncertain gaze and fear of something.
He didn’t know what it was because it wasn’t from him.
Uga stared.
Something… clicked.
Some buried part of him surged forward, like a flame catching old oil.
His lips moved before he knew it.
“Big… sister?”
His voice was rough. Hoarse. Childlike. A word not spoken in years.
The woman froze.
She took a step forward. Then another.
He didn’t resist when she rushed into his arms.
She was his sister.
That was the day Uga returned to civilization.
Though “civilization” was a stretch—he barely knew how to talk, let alone live among people. But she helped. Taught him. Fed him. Gave him clothes.
Considering his condition, she even stayed in a rural village for months with him.
Uga was still Uga—but now, he had somewhere to sleep that wasn’t mud. Had a blanket. Had soup.
Had warmth.
Had someone to tell him it was okay to hit mean faces.
But not pretty ones.
Because “pretty people” didn’t need fists. They needed smiles.
And so it stuck.
That was Uga.
Her name was Sira.
The girl who once dragged a small boy through the forest with a trembling hand, whispering courage she didn’t feel.
The sister who shoved him into safety with every ounce of strength her thin arms had.
The sister who smiled and said, “Big Sis will be right back,” even as her eyes filled with fear.
Sira hadn’t come back.
Not because she didn’t want to.
But because she couldn’t.
That night, when she ran to distract the monster chasing them, she didn’t get far. She tripped. Fell. Slammed her head against a root hidden under the thick ferns. She blacked out in the darkness—just a child with scraped knees, torn sleeves, and a heartbeat thumping like a war drum.
When she woke up, the forest was gone.
So was Uga.
She wasn’t in the forest anymore. She was lying on the straw-covered floor of a wagon, covered by a thin blanket. Her head pounded, her throat was parched, and strange voices spoke around her.
A man sat nearby.
He had tired eyes, a thick beard, and the kind of smile that came easily but didn’t stay long. His name was Darin, and he was an adventurer. A silver-ranked one, by his own admission. He had found her unconscious while returning from a solo monster hunt. Carried her all the way to the city.
He gave her water. Bread. A place to rest.
Then he vanished.
He had a kind soul, yes. But Darin had flaws.
Gambling was one of them.
That night, the night after the village incident—after dropping Sira off in a shared adventurer lodging—he lost every copper he had earned. Took another risky quest the next morning, and never returned. Some said he died from the quest. Others claimed he ran off to avoid his debts.
For Sira, the result was the same.
Alone. In a city of strangers. Eight years old.
She wept the first week. She screamed for Uga. She asked every guard and merchant if they could take her back. No one had.
Eventually, the hunger set in.
Just like it did for Uga.
But unlike her brother, Sira wasn’t born with strength that could split boulders. She had nothing.
So she learned.
She cleaned tavern floors for scraps. She washed laundry at the guilds. She fetched water for grumpy potion brewers and old swordsmen who barely looked her way. She was hit once, scolded a dozen times, but she survived.
Every coin she earned, she saved.
She saved and saved—until saving became second nature.
She saved until she could afford a roof, then a stall, then finally… a business of her own.